within these walls that your residence at the king’s court might have proved to your own advantage, and for the welfare of others; but my friendly intent has been baffled by your heat and unreasonable pride. One question, however, on the subject ere we part. You have rejected my counsel. May I ask if, under the influence of temptation or threats, you are capable of betraying it?”
“My lord, may God and the saints forbid!” answered Oliver hastily. “Whatever was spoken on the subject was spoken in confidence, and the brave man does not betray the guest seated at his board, and under the rose on his own roof-tree. I pledge my word – I swear to you. But it needs not. You have the honour of an Icingla on which to rely, and the honour of an Icingla is of more worth, in such a case, than assurances or oaths. I have said.”
“It is well,” said De Moreville, who, in spite of his efforts to appear calmly indifferent, could not conceal the relief which he experienced as he listened. “But deem not,” added he, “that I fear aught for myself, or that any breach of confidence on your part could pass unpunished. Breathe within these walls but one word of what I spake with your welfare in view, and, by St. Moden, your doom is fixed!”
As De Moreville spoke the massive gates were thrown open, and the baron and the squire rode into the courtyard, and, dismounting, surrendered their steeds to the attendants.
“Follow me,” said De Moreville, somewhat contemptuously, “and I will conduct you to the king’s presence. I trust,” added he, with a smile of peculiar significance, “that you will find his company more to your taste than mine. Nay, blanch not. Arthur of Brittany found him a kind uncle, and Arthur’s sister, Eleanor the Fair, who pines as a captive in Bristol Castle, has reason to bless his name.”
Oliver shuddered at De Moreville’s tone and manner; and, as the baron’s words sank instantly and deeply into his heart, visions of the dungeon and the gallows rose before his imagination. Not more gloomy could have been his presentiments had some magician, supposed capable of foretelling the future, whispered in his ear the warning inscribed by the Florentine poet over the portals of the infernal regions, “Leave all hope behind.”
But he had now gone too far either to draw back or hesitate; and with a heart as sad as if he had been entering the fabled hall of Eblis, he followed his Norman kinsman till he found himself within the walls which were subsequently so richly adorned by the artists who flourished under the patronage of Henry of Winchester and Eleanor of Provence with the story of Antiochus, but which, in the days of John, were less tastefully decorated.
It was near the hour of dinner, and the king and his courtiers were about to feast in a way worthy of the season and the day; and the great hall of the Tower was crowded with lords of high rank and ladies of rare beauty. Rich and splendid were the dresses which they wore. Indeed, accustomed as Oliver had been for a brief period to the court of Castile, the scene now presented would, under ordinary circumstances, have dazzled his eye and raised his wonder. Courtiers with long hair artificially curled and bound with ribbons, and wearing jewelled gloves and gay mantles, and full flowing robes, girded at the waist with richly-ornamented belts, talked affectedly to ladies not less gaily, but more gracefully, dressed than the other sex, and wearing round the waist girdles sparkling with gold and gems.
But all this display made little impression on Oliver as De Moreville led him to the upper end of the hall; for there, occupying an elevated chair of oak, carved and ornamented, sat a person who eclipsed all present in the magnificence of his attire, and awed all present by an air of superiority which long years of power and authority had made part of himself. He was about fifty years of age, and his hair was grey, almost white; and his countenance was that of a man who had suffered much from care and regret – perhaps something also from remorse. But he was still vigorous, and his form, which, though not tall, was strong and compact, appeared still capable of enduring fatigue in case of necessity. His raiment was gorgeous, and literally glistened and shone with precious stones. He wore a red satin mantle embroidered with sapphires and pearls, a tunic of white damask, with a girdle set with garnets and sapphires; while the baldric, that crossed from the left shoulder to sustain his sword, was set with diamonds and emeralds, and his white gloves were ornamented, one with a ruby, the other with a sapphire. Such were the aspect and dress of him who, surrounded by courtiers and jesters, lorded it over the gay and somewhat gaudy company which kept the Christmas of 1214 in the Tower of London.
As Hugh de Moreville and Oliver Icingla, guided by a gentleman attached to the royal household, walked up the hall and approached the elevation of the daïs, this personage, whose array was so magnificent, and whose air was so imperious, turned round and directed, first at one and then at the other, a glance which indicated so clearly that his sentiments towards them were the very reverse of favourable, that Oliver halted in alarm, and for a moment or two stood staring wildly before him with his hand on the hilt of his sword. Before him, and regarding him with a scowl which would have made even nobler and more refined features unpleasant to look upon, and with an eye that glared on him as the tiger glares when about to spring on its victim, was the prince for the sake of whose crown he had scorned the friendship of Fitzarnulph and defied the enmity of De Moreville. It was the man to whose tender mercies he was now to be intrusted. It was King John.
CHAPTER VI
KING JOHN
ON the 27th of May, 1199, the Abbey of Westminster was the scene of an impressive ceremony. On that day, and in that edifice, a man of thirty-two years of age was solemnly crowned King of England, and took the oaths to govern justly. He had seen much of life, enjoyed considerable experience in affairs of state, and was not deficient in intellectual culture. Moreover, he had the advantage of a healthy and vigorous frame, and of a countenance sufficiently well formed to be thought handsome. But on his face there appeared an expression, now of dissolute audacity, now of sullen temper, which might have made an intelligent spectator presage that, ere long, the cry of “Long live the king!” would give way to the stern shout of “Death to the tyrant!”
The personage who had the distinction of being on that memorable occasion “the observed of all observers” was John of Anjou, the youngest of the five sons who sprang from the marriage of the second Henry and Eleanor of Guienne. Of the five sons, four had gone the way of all flesh. William died in childhood; Henry died of fever while in rebellion against his father; Geoffrey was trampled to death while taking part in a tournament at Paris; Richard expired of a mortal wound inflicted by the arrow of Bertrand de Gordon, while he was besieging the castle of Chalus; and John, as the survivor, claimed not only the kingdom of England, but that vast Continental empire which the first of our Plantagenet kings had extended from the Channel to the Pyrenees.
Matters, however, did not go quite smoothly; nor was John without a rival. Some months after his elder brother, Geoffrey, was killed in the tournament at Paris, Geoffrey’s widow, Constance of Brittany, gave birth to a son, to whom the Bretons, in honour of the memory of their mythical hero, gave the name of Arthur. King Richard was well inclined towards his nephew, and anxious to educate the boy to succeed him. But Constance, a weak and somewhat vicious woman, refused to place her son in the custody of Cœur de Lion, who, in consequence, recognised John as his heir. Nevertheless, on Richard’s death, the people of Anjou and Brittany proclaimed young Arthur as their sovereign; and Constance, carrying him to the court of Paris, placed him under the protection of Philip Augustus. But Philip, after making great professions, and promising to give Arthur one of his daughters in marriage, concluded a treaty with John in 1200, and, without scruple, sacrificed all the boy’s interests.
And now John’s throne seemed secure; and both the crown of England and the coronal of golden roses – the diadem of Normandy – sat easily on his brow; but at this juncture his indiscretion hurried him into a matrimonial project which cost him dear.
It was the summer of 1200, and John made a progress through Guienne to receive the homage of that province. In Angoulême, at a great festival given in his honour, his eye was attracted and his imagination captivated
